


Painted Fragments

by inkreservoir



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Philosophy, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-17
Updated: 2016-03-17
Packaged: 2018-05-27 07:33:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,136
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6275368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkreservoir/pseuds/inkreservoir
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kankuro paints Sasori's face on a cold, candlelit night in the desert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Painted Fragments

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by ideas that came up in some Skype chats. Sasori’s one of my top three favorite Naruto characters, and I was rambling about his relationship with his own body and self-worth and brought Kankuro up and one of my friends mentioned shipping them. I took the idea to one of my group chats and my friends impressively dived right into fluff involving Kankuro doing Sasori’s make up, and, being me, I had to go and make it sad. Then this fic happened. I’m quite satisfied with it. Thanks for reading!

The room is quiet apart from the soft buzzing of the radiator— it gets cold on winter desert nights, and the red glow mixes with the fire of the candles on the floor around them, illuminating the room and their faces. Kankuro sits cross-legged in a pair of black shorts and a t-shirt, one hand planted firmly on the floor in front of his exposed knee and the other carefully dipping a paintbrush into a dish of semi-thick green paint. He leans closer to Sasori, eyes narrowed as he sweeps colour across Sasori’s cheeks in practiced motion. Sasori remains perfectly still, so much so that Kankuro likens him to a sculpture in his mind, before remembering that that’s exactly what Sasori is.

“This is… strange,” Sasori murmurs, his eyes closed although Kankuro already finished painting his eyelids.

“What is?” Kankuro asks, swirling the brush around in the dish to begin filling in his lines more. He’d traced the pattern over Sasori’s face with pencil first, something he’d never be able to do with his own. Not because he couldn’t put the makeup on Sasori perfectly without an outline, but rather to show Sasori what he was about to do and make sure that it was okay first.

“This,” Sasori says, eyes fluttering open to lock on Kankuro’s, and Kankuro’s breath catches at the sudden motion. Sasori’s eyes are indicative of his title—the same colour as the sands of their village that the puppeteer would run red with blood.

“It’s not strange to paint wood,” Kankuro says dismissively, satisfied with his handiwork on Sasori’s nose. “I need you to purse your lips for me.”

Sasori obliges, and Kankuro leans closer, holding Sasori’s chin up so his lips are at level with Kankuro’s eyes. Kankuro’s lips pucker instinctively too as he carefully applies the paint. Sasori stays quiet until Kankuro pulls back a few moments later.

“Don’t press your lips together,” Kankuro says. “I know you might have the impulse, but—“

“I don’t,” Sasori says. “I wouldn’t feel it if I did.”

Kankuro nods, and focuses his attention on squeezing a few drops of alcohol into the paint to thin it, breaking their eye contact. Kankuro doesn’t paint the skin of other people very often. The last time he did, it was for his sister before one of the Sand’s festivals. She complained of how it tickled and at the time, Kankuro found it annoying, but Sasori doesn’t have that problem. Rather, he can’t have that problem.

“I know painting wood isn’t strange,” Sasori says, bringing the conversation back to what he was talking about before. “I do plenty of it myself.”

Kankuro bows his head slightly, recognizing his earlier rudeness, "Of course." Sasori isn’t only his senior in age but in art, his work serving as Kankuro’s biggest inspiration and influence since he was young and first learning about puppetry. And despite the bloodshed it takes to get them so, Sasori’s works are beautiful, more than anything Kankuro could create with his current skill set.

“Can the paint be washed off of wood?” Sasori asks.

Kankuro’s hand stops.

He hadn’t thought of that.

“…no,” he says after a moment. “I don’t think so.”

“Mmm,” Sasori concedes, his eyes fluttering shut again. “I guess that means this puppet is yours, then… to customize me.”

“I’m so sorry,” Kankuro apologizes, his grip tightening on the brush and gaze dropping to the floor.

Kankuro feels Sasori's hand touch his chin and lift it, just as Kankuro had done to him a few moments ago. “No,” he says. “... I want this.”

Kankuro sucks in a sharp breath, Sasori’s eyes trained intensely on his own, and struggles not to look away. After a pause, Sasori lets go and his hand falls, colliding to the floor with a soft thud. He turns his head away from Kankuro, folding his legs neatly beneath him, and reaches to grasp Kankuro’s wrist. Their shadows flicker and dance against the wooden floors.

“Continue,” he commands.

Kankuro nods mutely and moves to dip the brush in the paint again.

This is the part of Sasori’s art that Kankuro doesn’t understand, the part he almost doesn’t want to understand.

“My puppet...” Kankuro mumbles.

“Mm,” Sasori offers in response.

Kankuro shakes his head, trying to regain his focus as he brings his brush to Sasori’s chin. He narrows his eyes, carefully lining the outline he'd drawn, until he can't resist it any longer. “But… why?”

Sasori watches him, then explains, patiently, as though speaking to a child, “There’s freedom in only being changed by the forces you choose. By people, instead of by time.”

“But—there’s no freedom in being controlled by someone else’s strings,” Kankuro falters. Disagreeing with Sasori feels wrong, when he’s learned so much from the other man.

“It’s not something you can really understand unless you want it for yourself,” Sasori admits. “Eternal beauty… a state of being that lasts forever.”

He smiles at Kankuro, his teeth peeking between his painted lips.

“This is as close as I can get right now,” he says. “As long as I have a heart… it won’t match my body, and I can’t really be a puppet. I’m a work that is incomplete. A work that may never be complete.”

Kankuro nods slowly, feeling as though the other man's words are flying over his head. What point is there to chasing an ambition that can never be fulfilled…?

“Giving the control to you is part of that,” Sasori continues, unfazed. “It’s how I pay for my failure, and it brings me closer to what I want to be.”

“But why can’t you just be what you are?” the question falls childishly from Kankuro’s lips before he can stop it. Sasori touches Kankuro's hand again, so he raises it to finish what he started on Sasori's chin.

When the paintbrush touches him again, Sasori closes his eyes. “Because I only exist in fragments," he answers. "Because I am part puppet and part human. Part living and part lifeless. Part eternal, and part…” He trails off.

Kankuro sets his paintbrush down and leans back to see Sasori’s face in full, the makeup complete.

The teal-green streaks around Sasori’s eyes, across his cheeks and nose, on his lips and chin are precise, more than any make up Kankuro has ever put on a living person, himself included. It makes Sasori’s eyes look brighter when he opens them, and Kankuro reaches for the hand mirror on the ground, turning it so that Sasori can have a look.

He holds his breath as Sasori takes it in.

“…I look good,” he states finally in an assured tone.

Kankuro exhales. “I’m glad you like it.”

Sasori nods. “I wouldn’t trust just anyone with it.”

There’s a pang in Kankuro’s chest, but he smiles.

“Thank you.”


End file.
